Dark Fragments: a fast paced psychological thriller

by Rob Sinclair

  ‘Ah, you can feck off then,’ O’Brady said, waving me away. ‘Waste of money the lot of ya.’

  Elvis got to his feet. My face must have been a picture as I looked up at the gigantic figure looming over me. I backed away, my eyes not leaving Elvis. He matched my every move, stepping forward with each step I took back. I stumbled down the stairs, and only when I got to the bottom did I turn around and make a beeline for the exit.

  Heart racing, head pounding, I stepped out into the street and felt a sense of relief as the cold, fresh air hit my face. A second later, though, a wave of nausea coursed through me. I wasn’t sure whether it was from the drink or the perilous situation I’d just put myself in. I grabbed hold of my knees and put my head down between my legs, waiting, hoping, that the feeling would pass and I could keep my stomach contents inside me.

  When I felt able I straightened up, took a deep breath and looked around the street – deserted – then behind me at the door of the club. With no sign of Elvis or the other goons, I felt a further wave of relief.

  I went to turn around to trudge toward the twenty-four-hour taxi rank five minute's walk away. It was time to go home. As I did so, though, I saw the man. Well, not the man – his balled fist hurtling toward my face. With no time to react – and too inebriated to have been able to even if I’d known it was coming – I put up no defence as the fist crashed into the side of my head. I was down on the ground before I knew it. I took a kick to the gut that knocked the wind out of me. My eyes bulged wide and I heaved, trying to catch my breath. Everything in front of me flickered into a wall of bright white light.

  Seconds later I was out.

  When I came to, a bulky bouncer was standing over me. He was dressed from head to toe in black, his leather-gloved hand outstretched toward me.

  ‘Come on, son,’ he said, his voice deep and husky and not unkind. ‘Time for you to go home.’

  He put his hand into my armpit and tugged. I groaned and got to my feet groggily, letting the bouncer take most of my weight.

  ‘What happened?’ I said.

  ‘What happened? You’ve had a bit too much to drink, mate. Home time for you.’

  ‘No. Someone hit me,’ I said, holding my hand up to my head.

  I pulled it back and looked at the dark, moist patch on my hand. Blood. Coming from a gash above my left eye.

  ‘Nah, mate. You’re just drunk. You fell over. Hit your head.’

  I patted myself down. Realised my wallet was gone. My phone, keys, everything else was still in my pockets, though.

  ‘What are you on about? I’ve been mugged. Someone’s taken my wallet. Did you not see?’

  Another bouncer sauntered over. His face was hard and unwelcoming compared to his colleague’s.

  ‘Time for you to go, son.’

  ‘I’ve been attacked!’ I protested.

  ‘Time for you to go,’ the bouncer repeated, his tone harder.

  I held his glare for just a second. I wanted to stand and argue. I didn’t know what was going on or why they weren’t listening. Perhaps they really hadn’t seen what had happened and just assumed I fell. Or maybe they were lying – but why?

  Whatever the answer, I knew they were right. I wasn’t welcome.

  I turned and stumbled off down the road, looking back every few steps to make sure no-one was following me. The bouncers stayed by the club entrance, their eyes fixed on me the whole way down the street. When I got to the end of the road, I turned and ran.

  CHAPTER 16

  When my alarm went off at six thirty a.m. the next morning, my head was a painful, pounding mess. Much of that was the alcohol I’d drunk, I realised, but I was sure the punch to the head and the kick to the stomach hadn’t helped matters.

  Despite my drunken state and the wounds on my face, I’d managed to find a taxi driver willing to take me from the city centre back to Sutton Coldfield where Alice and I lived. Although in recent times it was considered a suburb of Birmingham, the town had a rich history in its own right. It was the size of most small cities with a largely middle-class population and some pockets, particularly in the northern parts, of real wealth. Not the type of area where you’d expect to see men with bashed-up faces wandering the streets in drunken stupors. Yet that had certainly been me the previous night.

  My memory was hazy, but I could recall a brief argument with the taxi driver who’d stopped the cab and ordered me out some half a mile away from my house. He’d obviously realised what was coming. Just a few steps further I’d been hunched down, hands on knees, spewing my guts up all over someone’s front hedge.

  The embarrassment I felt on remembering my antics was palpable. But I really hadn’t intended to act that way. I certainly didn’t make a habit of anti-social behaviour; it was simply a testament to the dreadful state I’d been in. I supposed the one saving grace was that my drunken foolery hadn’t been anywhere near my house. I could only imagine what the reaction on our street would have been if a neighbour had seen me spewing in their garden. Not that that made it any better for the poor sod who was waking up to a sick-filled hedge.

  I groaned as I lifted myself upright and pain shot through my abdomen. Looking down at my bare midriff, I saw the large purple bruise at the base of my ribcage. It looked like a blot of ink had stained my skin.

  I got to my feet and gave a cursory glance to the other side of the king-sized bed. It was empty. When I’d arrived home – I’d no idea what time, but it was somewhere on the border of late night and early morning – Alice had been asleep on the sofa, fully clothed with her dressing gown over her. I’m not sure whether she’d intended to fall asleep there or she’d been waiting for me to return home. I hadn’t woken her, but stumbled up the stairs and somehow managed to undress before collapsing onto the bed.

  I moved toward the en-suite and turned on the light. The sudden intrusion of brightness elicited a fresh stab of pain between my eyes. I studied my tired and beaten face in the mirror. I looked every bit as bad as I felt. My eyes were bloodshot and I had big, dark bags under each socket. My face was puffy and pale, and dried blood caked my forehead and one side of my head. I reached up and touched the wet spot just above my eye that was glistening in the light. I winced. The wound was open but it was more of a graze than anything – it wouldn’t require stitches, just cleaning up and a plaster. It made me wonder whether it had come from the punch or I’d scraped it as I’d tumbled to the ground like the bouncer had suggested. I couldn’t be sure either way.

  After a cool, soothing shower I felt noticeably fresher. I got dressed and slowly trudged down the stairs, in two minds as to whether to just walk straight out of the house or at least try to engage with Alice.

  As I reached the bottom step, I realised my noise upstairs had already woken her. We lived in an old Victorian terraced house and the worn, creaking floorboards made it impossible to move about discreetly. I stood in the doorway to the lounge. Alice was sitting up on the sofa, the dressing gown still draped over her. Her hair was scruffy, her face a blotchy mess. She looked tired and full of angst. And as I stood there, despite the pain in my gut and the aching in my heart, I realised just how much I still loved her. I really loved her. I had to find a way to forgive her for what she’d done. I just wasn’t sure how.

  ‘Ben, what on earth happened to you?’

  She got to her feet and came over to me. She reached out with her hand and touched the wound above my eye. I barely reacted to the pain.

  ‘I was mugged,’ I said. ‘They stole my wallet.’

  ‘Oh, Ben. Have you called the police?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Then you need to. Did they take your phone too?’

  ‘No. It’s right here,’ I said, tapping my pocket.

  Alice frowned at that. ‘I’ll get you a plaster,’ she said.

  She rushed off and came back a few moments later. I was still standing by the doorway, not sure what to do or say next. Alice placed the plaster over the wound. When she was finishe
d, she threw her arms around me and burrowed into my chest. Initially I stood motionless, hands by my sides, but then I wrapped my arms around Alice and squeezed her tightly – a natural and unpremeditated response.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘You have to believe me.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘I was really worried last night,’ she said. ‘I was worried you might not come back to me. I couldn’t cope without you.’

  When she pulled back I saw the genuine trauma in her eyes. I wanted to hug her again and tell her that everything would be okay. But I didn’t. Because I wasn’t sure whether I’d be telling the truth.

  ‘I need to go to work,’ I said.

  ‘Okay,’ Alice said with a disappointed smile. ‘I hope we can get through this, Ben. I love you. I love you more than anything.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I love you too.’ Then I turned and left.

  The rest of the morning dragged by as I tried to appear useful in the office. In reality, I was about as productive as a stoned monkey. And it wasn’t just because of the hangover. I couldn’t focus, not on a thing. My brain was all over the place, going over and over the conversation with Alice the night before, the thoughts of her with Fletcher, and the bizarre situation I’d thrown myself into at the strip club. By noon I was wondering whether I should just bite the bullet and call it a day, take half a day’s holiday and drag myself back to bed. Or to a pub. Drown my sorrows once more.

  But then my phone rang. I picked the mobile up off my desk. Unknown caller. I answered it.

  ‘Is this Ben Stephens?’

  The Irish accent and the tone of the voice were unmistakable.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Callum O’Brady. You remember me, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said again. I could feel my heart thudding in my chest and my palms getting sweaty. I looked around the office nervously, as though someone might know to whom I was speaking.

  ‘Grand. Well, I have your wallet. Why don’t you come around to the club later to collect it?’

  ‘You have my wallet?’ I said, my mind in overdrive.

  ‘Yeah, if you’re Ben Stephens, I have your wallet.’

  ‘Okay. No, that’s great. Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll come and get it.’

  ‘I’ll be there after eight. Perhaps we can talk some more about that business proposition you have.’

  I opened my mouth to speak but he’d already hung up.

  CHAPTER 17

  In my intoxicated state the previous night, I’d thought O’Brady could help me. But in the cold light of day I was having serious doubts about my drunken judgment – not just in approaching O’Brady, but about what I was approaching him to do.

  His sudden change of heart, following his initial outright refusal to engage with me, worried me too. I knew very little then about who O’Brady was. I’d never even met him before. I knew him only by second-hand reputation, hearsay. He was a thug. A criminal. A gangster. He had a reputation for violence and for getting what he wanted.

  I’d thought most of what I’d heard was probably embellished make-believe. Playground chatter. People wanting to find a Hollywood baddie on their doorstep just so they could gossip about his notoriety. But something about O’Brady’s presence told me that at least part of what I’d heard must have been true. He wasn’t a straight-laced businessman, that was for sure.

  I just hoped I wasn’t already in too deep.

  My plan was simple: get the wallet and backtrack out of there as fast as I could.

  I finished work at five p.m. on the dot and headed straight to a local real-ale pub not far from the office for some much-needed Dutch courage. Alice had been calling me through the day and had left several voicemails with her in various emotional states, from calm and collected through to full-blown meltdown. I hadn’t yet called her back. I was feeling bad about that. I hated the thought of what she’d done – I hated that slimy prick Fletcher too. And yet, as the day had worn on, a gnawing regret had built up in me. I loved Alice, and I knew that while I couldn’t excuse what had happened, I could at least sympathise with how hard the last few months had been. Despite what she’d done, I wanted to be with her. I just needed to find a way.

  After four pints and some banal conversation, first with the barman and then with another loner at the bar, I was feeling light-headed and had just a sliver of extra confidence, though I was still wracked with nerves. I left the pub and trudged across the grounds of St Philip’s cathedral then onwards, past the city-centre shops and over toward the much less respectable area where O’Brady’s strip club was located.

  Digbeth might have been on the way up once more, but parts of it were still downtrodden and you were only ever one wrong turn away from entering one of the seediest parts of the city. Despite that, I’d never before felt nervous walking the streets there – perhaps because I was usually beered-up. This time, though, my whole body was tense.

  I rounded the corner onto Princes Road – a name that was an oxymoron given the decrepit buildings that lined it – and walked as casually as I could up to the entrance to Full Spread. It was five past eight and I doubted it would be open yet, but two bouncers were stationed outside, arms folded, their faces sullen and scowling. I glanced at them both and wracked my blurred memories of the previous evening. I couldn’t be sure whether they were the same guys who had so coldly turned me away into the night.

  The overgrown doormen, their bodies positioned to cover the closed entrance, barely blinked as I headed right up to them.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr O’Brady,’ I said, sounding a lot calmer than I felt.

  The men stared at me for a couple of seconds as though I was an imbecile, but then the one on the right, the shorter and older of the two, turned and opened the door for me.

  ‘He’s in the office,’ he growled.

  I nodded and stepped in. As I had thought, the club was yet to open. The inside was fully lit up, the true extent of its dirt and filth and worn-out fittings plainly evident. Two cleaners scuttled about mopping and vacuuming floors. Their efforts were decent, I was sure, but later on, with the lights turned down, nobody would notice the difference.

  A solitary barmaid stood in position, getting her area ready for the night ahead. Other than that, there was no-one about and the place was surreally calm and relaxing. I walked up to the barmaid, the same young lady who had been there the night before, I realised.

  ‘I’m here to see –’

  ‘In the office,’ she said, pointing over to her right with a sullen pout.

  ‘Sure, thanks,’ I said and walked on.

  I spotted the door at the far end of the club. In the centre was a small plaque with the words: Staff only. No exit. I was a couple of feet from the door when it opened and a woman walked out.

  Jaw to the floor, I stared. Her voluptuous and beautifully pert breasts stared right back at me. I couldn’t help but let my eyes slide. The only item of clothing she wore was a cheese-wire-thin G-string and a pair of stilettos that made her taller than me. She had a perfectly proportioned body and a silky bronze sunbed tan. But when I finally looked at her face I saw, in the bright lights of the closed club, that it was caked in thick and hastily drawn make-up that made her look unappealing and garish. As with the club interior, I guessed that when the lights went down no-one would notice much, if they were bothered about looking at her face at all.

  Without a word, she grabbed my hand and escorted me through the door. We entered a corridor, the white-painted walls and tiled floor a stark contrast to the dark finish of the club. She ushered me into a small, mirrored room, with a plush purple carpet underfoot and an extravagant mock-chandelier overhead casting a warm glow. The only furniture in the room was a leather armchair. She stood me in front of it.

  ‘This is the office?’ I said, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘No,’ she said, pulling a sultry face and coyly running a finger down my shirt buttons. ‘This is a treat. Just for you.’

&nbs
p; She slowly began to gyrate in front of me, her hips moving seductively from side to side in a rhythmic fashion to some unheard music. I stood motionless, trying my hardest to keep my eyes off her sumptuous body. But I just couldn’t help it. Wherever I sent my gaze she was there, multiple times in the mirrored walls.

  She turned around and shook her backside, bobbing it up and down, edging in closer and closer to my crotch. I tried my best to stay calm, relaxed, focused. She straightened up, turned back around, and moved right into me. The smell of her perfume filled my nostrils as she gazed into my eyes. She placed her fingers delicately onto my chin and pushed her bright-red lips, which reminded me of a clown, right up to mine as though she were about to kiss me …

  A step too far. I’d had enough. I was about to shove her back, away from me. But then I hesitated when she took me by surprise – she began to slide up and down, her body and fingers brushing and stroking teasingly all over me. Then her hands began to roam free. No longer the gentle, caressing touch – more deliberate and purposeful.

  I quickly realised what was happening.

  A treat? Not exactly. She was patting me down. Checking me for any weapons, recording devices or whatever else it was that O’Brady was concerned I might be carrying. An unusual way to do it, for sure, but I’d watched enough TV to understand the focused nature of her hand movements.

  She took the phone out of my pocket, gave it a cursory glance – probably checking it wasn’t recording – and then stuck it into the thin elastic of her knickers.

  She took my keys too and wafted them about, then, satisfied, put them back in my pocket.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I think we’re done. Mr O’Brady will see you now.’

  And with that she backed off, giving me a knowing and unpleasant smile. I was left dumbstruck, my mouth wide open, part of me wanting her to come back and carry on, but a larger part feeling dirty and used and embarrassed.